Marvelous Tales & Bed Time Stories, Vol 2
by BakedBeans 1up
Summary: This is the story of an immortal Canadian mutant, his asshole of a team leader, a brother who hates him and a woman whose touch is the only thing that can kill him.
1. Rogue & Wolverine 1

There was something about the quiet tranquility of the northern wilderness that Logan liked. The gentle sounds of nature and the nippy breeze as it journeyed from the open plains to the mountains in the north was a calming contrast to the violent noise of his past. His shack, as compact as it was, did not bother the landscape too much, occupying a small space alongside a dirt track which branched from a larger road, which itself was a lengthy drive to civilisation.

Like any other day, Logan had risen from his bed and readied himself for the day whilst the sun was still in it's infancy. He didn't have much in the way of a morning routine, especially when there was too little to do and too much time to do it. The most exciting thing in his life was opening his sock drawer, which was fine by him.

He passed the couch and navigated through the small gap between the wall and a coffee table hidden beneath a landscape of empty cans and magazines of various interests. He looked at the couch he had just passed then returned his gaze to a magazine at the top of one of the piles, flicking it over so the blonde-haired bikini model was no longer seen.

His feet wormed their way in to his boots, the laces having been tightened enough for them to go on easily without needing to recreate the bow each time, but also loose that he could pull them off with a swift tug. He then stepped out on to the porch and shuffled quietly over to the bench, wiping away the sprinkled remains of it's former skin before sitting down with a heavy sigh.

Retirement, or what this was called, was supposed to be a life free from stress, where the once-familiar scent of drama was a distant smell that had been long forgotten. Yet here Logan was, head bowed, staring down at the wood between his feet.

He rummaged around the chest of his shirt and picked out a cigar, took out a lighter from a different pocket then joined the two and took a taste as he returned the lighter to his denim.

A young woman had entered his life during the night. She called herself Rogue, but eventually he got the name Marie out of her. She'd ran away from home, not giving Logan much in the way of a reason, with the intention of heading as north as she could before she ran out of land. He'd found her hiding in the back of his pickup truck, unaware that her light steps across the grass had sounded like a heavy march to the slumbering mutant. He wasn't sure why he agreed to let her come in, though his offer of a couch for the night had lit up her eyes like she had won the lottery. He hadn't quite said that his offer was a one-night only deal, but watching her face form something which seemed like a smile for the first time in nearly a month meant there may have been room for negotiations.

He heard her shift from the couch and climb to her feet, and it didn't take long for her to shuffle towards the front door.

Logan rolled the cigar between fingers then took another draw. "Sleep well?"

She nodded, wiping at one side of her face.

He pushed himself up. "You want something to eat?"

Another bob of the head as she rubbed at the other eye.

"What do you eat? Cereal?" He asked, as if the younger woman was a different species and he was unsure of what it ate. He side-stepped past her and took an immediate left, where the small corner of the living area formed a kitchen. He opened one of the cupboards on the wall and reached in for a box that looked like it had came with the house. He slammed it on to the counter, causing some of it's contents to shoot up like an anti-climatic firework display. "Here."

Rogue leaned forward as far as she could without lifting her toes and scrunched her eyes at the packaging. "What's this?"

"Look, kid—it might not seem like much, but it's good for you. I know you're probably used to cereal with a cartoon character on the side of the box, but this is all I have."

Rogue continued to frown, but this time it was directed at him. "Excuse me? I'm not twelve."

He snatched the box and returned it to the place it had been hiding, slamming the door shut with such force that it caused the unsteady sculpture of dry crockery and cutlery to shudder on the drain board of the sink. "Fine. Then what do you want? Bacon? I don't have much else. I don't usually take in strays."

"Strays? You make me sound like I'm some cat you found digging through your trash."

Logan lifted a brow, which caused her face to warm up.

"Well, maybe the trash part is true." She coaxed as many strands of hair as she could to fall in front of the emerging red tone of her cheeks.

He nodded towards the bathroom door. "Why don't you freshen up and I'll make breakfast. You look like you could do with a shower."

She gasped.

"No offence."

After coming to the realisation that she couldn't properly defend herself when the fact was she hadn't had a proper wash in weeks, she slowly turned on the spot and navigated her way to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Very soon, the sound of water could be heard.

Logan's hand reached for the cool surface of the fridge when the crackle of rubber hitting stones diverted his glance. He didn't get visitors, so to have two in the space of twelve hours sent a ripple up his nerves. He peeked through the blinds at the black SUV which came to a rest next to his own truck, and a pair of dark-shaded men came out.

Men who looked like trouble. He headed to the door and could feel the itch beneath his knuckles.


	2. Rogue & Wolverine 2

When the rattle of a fist hit the front door, Logan was only a few feet away. He opened it to a sharp-suited gentleman, his lips moulded in to a practised grin. His bronze hair, thick in volume, had been brushed to the side in such a way that not a single hair dared escape. He had the youthful and envious face of someone on the front of a celebrity magazine than a Government-looking goon knocking on doors at eight o'clock in the morning.

"Hello sir." He spoke, his hands joined together in front of him. Standing a short distance away was his partner, who was leaning against their vehicle and taking a lot of interest in the surrounding area. Unlike the younger man that had spoke, this one had a head free from hair except for a few dark speckles above his eyes, which were guarded by the mirrored shield of sunglasses.

"If you're sellin' something, I ain't interested."

"Oh no, I'm not a salesman sir." He said, his voice having a chirpy upbeat to it as his smile never seemed to fade. "Though the wife, she has been on my back about selling my motorcycle for years, if you're interested?"

Logan leaned against the door frame, his arms folded. "Ah-huh."

The false act continued. "My name is Agent Newman. I'm with Department H."

Wolverine was very familiar with the organisation, having been in their employment for a number of years. It was a branch of the Canadian Government which had been tasked with creating a team with superhuman abilities. The result was _Alpha Flight_ —a group which he had once been a member of, until he knocked out the squad leader after a night of heavy drinking and called them a poor man's Avengers. Eventually, the focus of the department was less about the superheroes in spandex and more about monitoring those who were deemed a threat to the country. Logan was recruited to their black-ops outfit known as _Team X_ , though the less he remembered about that time of his life, the better.

Logan could see the outline of the handgun underneath the suit jacket—when he worked there, he didn't need to carry around a weapon. He _was_ the weapon. He didn't ask to see any kind of identification, he had no reason to suspect that the man was lying. It didn't take him long to put the pieces together, and realise that the morning after he met Rogue, the Government had arrived at his front door. The only question was whether they knew she was inside his cabin, or they were just combing the area for any signs of her. It was a big region and an even bigger country. Logan knew that he had to deal with this problem diplomatically, which was unfortunately not his strongest suit.

"Can I come in?"

"No, you can't."

"Fair enough. I just have a few questions, if that's okay?"

"Well I'm in the middle of something."

"Oh, it won't take too long, y'know? A few answers, and you'll be back to doing what you were doing." The man continued to ignore the hint despite Logan's best attempts to give the most least interested expression that was possible. "We believe there is a dangerous mutant in these parts."

"It's not the Hulk again, is it?" Logan's eyes spent a few moments at the man over the other's shoulder.

"Oh, don't worry. It's not him. Quite the mess that fella made, didn't he?"

Logan merely responded with a nod.

"It's a young woman—probably about eighteen or nineteen years old. She sounds like she's from the south, like. . . Texas?" He leaned back towards his partner. "Would you say she's from Texas? Alabama?" He received no response. "Somewhere from down there, anyway. I'm not really good with accents. She's like one of them Southern Belles you see in the old cowboy movies."

Logan didn't move from his slanted positioning, propped against the aging oak. "Well you've come to the wrong house, bub."

"She's hurt a few people, y'know? Two men in hospital—the Doctor's say they might not make it through the night. Dangerous to the touch, she is."

"Is that so?" His curiosity peaked and his shoulder shuffled along the door frame.

The man took a cautious step forward, as if seeing how far he could approach the house before Logan stopped him. His playful optimism, which had been annoying the mutant since he first opened the door, quickly soured as their faces nearly touched. "Look, between you and me? I've spent all morning and all night knocking on doors. And those boots of yours look a little too big for those footprints along the road back there. So we can do this the easy way or the hard way."

A snarl began to simmer at the corner of his mouth. "Is that so? The easy way for me or the hard way for you?"

Time froze during the stand-off. Logan could feel every muscle in his body twitch in a sequence which grew more intense as it pulse down his arms.

Then the suited man laughed and retreated a step. "You're quite a character, Mr. . .?"

"Summers."

"Well, Mr. Summers—I'm sorry for wasting your time. If you see any one fitting that description, you be sure and give me a call, yeah? I'll go and get my card." The false civility returned as he began to walk away. Just as he reached the end of the porch, the faint soundtrack of water, which had played out since the beginning of the conversation, suddenly came to a halt. The man's foot hovered over the first step when a loud clunk came from inside the house, followed by the soft, southern sound of trouble.

"Hey Logan. . ."

The Canadian mutant closed his eyes.

"Where d'ya keep your towels?"

He blew out a heavy sigh.

"Oh wait, I've found one."

His shoulders dropped with a weight which had not been felt for some time.

When the man called Newman turned around, he saw the mutant's face had developed in to a monstrous growl, thick lines branching out to the corners of his reluctant visage. His call to his companion came out as nothing but a whimper, as his stomach was punctured by a quick thrust of metal. Logan yanked his arms back as the man fell to his knees, swaying gently like the distant trees in the wind, then collapsed for a final time in a heap on the freshly-sanded porch.

After watching the horrifying scene in front of him, the other man reacted by going for his gun. Logan's reaction was quicker. He leapt from the top step, reaching an impressive distance for a man his age and came to a stop only a few feet away, skidding on one knee. A cloud of gravel was thrown up as Logan caught the glimmer of metal piercing through the dust. The man in black shot off a wayward shot, one which hammered against Logan's eardrums at such close range, but he'd already pounced upon him when the sharp sound stopped ringing.

The scene cleared, his breaths softened and the red mist vanished from his eyes. His claws retreated and his hands swept slowly through his hair until they joined behind his head. He tried to calm himself and gather his thoughts. The two men in front of him were dead, a scene which Logan was familiar with but one which he had hoped to become a stranger to.

There was no getting away from it. His life was a war. One long, damn war. A soldier who didn't get to retire. Didn't get to die.

They had been right about there being a dangerous mutant around here. They just didn't realise there were two.


	3. Rogue & Wolverine 3

Life had a way of catching up, the cord only letting you pull away so far before it started to retract. For a few years, Logan had been a fool, thinking he had evaded the violent destiny that lay ahead, having taken a left turn and went off the map. But here he was, blood on his hands, the remnants of the dull ache of a fresh wound on his knuckles, fighting another war that had nothing to do with him.

Within a few frantic minutes of Logan barking at Rogue to get her clothes back on while he filled up a bag, they were in his truck, getting as far away from his cabin as possible. He knew the next time they knocked on his door, it wouldn't just be two goons in glasses, but instead an army with enough ammunition and weaponry to set half of Alberta on fire. He had contemplated hiding the bodies or getting rid of the car, clearing away the wreckage of bodies and blood from the front of his house, but every minute he would spend digging a hole was another minute he could have used with his foot slammed down on the pedal.

Silence had been a passenger in the truck since the start of the journey, leaving the only sound to come from the harsh-throated groaning of the engine as it struggled to go as fast as it's driver asked of it. The bends on the road were loose, with little press of the brake required. Logan had traversed these roads hundreds of times, remembering every turn from a memory that was occasionally sketchy. Eventually, his tongue made the first move.

"So. . . you gonna talk? You gonna tell me what's goin' on? Or do I just drop you off at their front door myself and wash my hands of this shit?" He looked over at Rogue, who had kept quiet since climbing in to the truck.

Her head was bowed, her mind focused on her thumb as it picked away at it's fellow fingers. She would occasionally lift her head, giving a quick glance to Logan before returning her eyes to her hands when she saw him do the same in return. "I'm. . . sorry."

Logan opened his mouth but his words withdrew beneath a deep breath.

"I didn't want any of this to happen. I didn't realise those guys were chasing me. I'm sorry you're caught up in this." She spoke to her feet.

"It's not your fault."

She gave a slight nod of her shoulders. "It is."

Logan looked over, tightening his grip around the leather of the wheel. "OK. Maybe it is a bit."

Finally, she looked up to see an upward twitch of his lips.

He rubbed the thick frame of hair around his jaw. "So those two guys he was talking about, the ones in the hospital. Who were they?"

"I'd. . . rather not talk about it."

"What about the fact you're a mutant?"

She blushed and spun her head to look out her own window. "A freak, more like."

Logan clenched his eyebrows at the word. He had knocked men out for lesser insults. "You ain't a freak, kid."

"I am! A god damn freak who can't even touch another person without hurting them." She leaned over and slammed her head against the passenger window.

"You know, about ten years ago, I was the same." He raised an eyebrow after a quick glance and an even quicker smirk. For a moment, he thought of his younger days, back when violence was the first word in his job description. When he really felt alive. With a slight sideways shake, he brushed that last thought to the shadows of his mind. "So that's your mutation? Your skin?"

Her eyes remained fixed on the foliage outside that blurred in to a palette of browns and greens. "Yup."

"How does it hurt people?"

"I put my boyfriend in a coma."

"Was he a mutant?"

"I don't think so."

"Maybe it doesn't hurt mutants."

She sighed. "Yeah, I'll just stick to kissing people who look like frogs for the rest of my life."

Logan scrunched up his face. "Have you even seen another mutant in real life?"

Rogue shrugged, her forehead glued to the glass. The truck's trembling pulsed at a steady beat against her skull, and except for the occasional bounce which parted her from the window, she quite enjoyed the rumbling's relaxing remedy. "I guess there's you."

"Yeah. There's me. And you know what? We all got problems, kid. We all got issues. We all sometimes wish we were normal. But we're not. We won't sit there and say _poor me_ and moan about it like a whiny little kid. We get on with it."

That pulled her head away from the window and she rubbed the marks on her finger. "I just. . . I've never been able to talk to any one about it before." She looked at Logan but this time she didn't divert her glance somewhere else when their eyes caught. "How did you manage it?"

"I'll be honest with you, I ain't a good role model for this kind of stuff." Logan quipped, reminding himself yet again that his days of peaceful retirement had been snatched away, like the loved ones he had lost in his lengthy life. He had learned to not think about the decisions he had made in his life, there were too many bad ones to count and too many moments to regret.

"I got through it in a _very_ unhealthy way."


	4. Rogue & Wolverine 4

"Where are we going?" Rogue finally asked, about thirty-five minutes after leaving the cabin and around ten minutes of silence after their last conversation dried up. The trees had failed to give her the answer she had been looking for, a repetitive background which occasionally looked like it was on a loop. The route they took never passed anything that resembled civilisation, and she wondered whether this part of the country had ever been inhabited, or if they were discovering a new part of the world, free from the destructive nature of mankind.

Logan didn't answer immediately, instead slowing the vehicle down to pass between a pair of elderly trees which grudgingly allowed them to crawl through with little more than an inch of space on either side. His foot pressed down and they resumed the quicker speed that had been constant during the journey. "I got an old friend who will help us out. Give us a place to stay for a bit."

"And then what?"

He gave her a glare which filled her with guilt. "Does it look like I have a plan, kid?"

"Uhh. . ."

His face softened. "Look, we're nearly there. Just a couple more minutes. Once we get there, we'll sort something out."

"OK. . ." She nodded, biting her lip as she went to ask her next question. ". . . your friend, is he a—?"

"A mutant?"

"Yeah. . ."

"He is. And before you ask, this one doesn't look like a frog either. So that pretty much kills that theory of yours."

The red tone of her face returned, a shade which Logan had now nicknamed Rogue. She folded her arms as her stomach began to make noises, ones she hoped were not as audible as they sounded to her. Even the cereal at Logan's house—or at least that's what it called itself on the box—sounded delicious at this moment as the promise of breakfast had yet to be fulfilled. She couldn't complain, of course, as she didn't feel comfortable with complaining with what seemed like his uncharacteristic generosity.

Her attention had changed from the passing scenery to studying the man that had given her a home for the night. He seemed withdrawn and distant. She wondered how long he had been alone—the cabin's interior was disorganised and a stranger to the homely feel of a woman. There were no pictures on his wall, nothing of personal attachment, as though the cabin was little more than four walls and a roof.

He seemed tortured, carrying a burden which he had never been able to shake. In moments like this, she wondered what was on his mind, whether he truely blamed her for having to leave his home or for murdering those men. Her eyes rolled to his hands. The claws—she wanted to ask about the claws. But like Rogue, his past was a mystery which would take a while to reveal.

The familiar background of trees was soon replaced with a wonderful lake which was nothing like she had seen before. The bold blue water weaved through the forest, like it had fallen from the sky and landed with a wide-reaching splat. On one side was the mountains which she had seen at Logan's place, their cold reflection casting on to the lake without neglecting any of their beauty. Then, something which was the most surprising of all, they drove through a small town—no more than two dozen buildings—and despite their visit being brief, she felt comforted by the sight of a peaceful settlement. While she had ran away to hide from the world, she was happy at the reminder that not everywhere on this planet was rotted.

Not long after that, they arrived at their destination. A cabin was nested by the lakeside, facing towards the resting water with a view which would have been the envy of many. It was similar in appearance to Logan's shack, except upscaled in size by at least twice the length and a second floor. Each window radiated with a warm, inviting glow which brought a smile to Rogue. "Is this it?" She asked.

"Yeah."

"It's a big house."

"Well he's a big guy." Logan said, as the wheels of the truck slowed down to a gentle stop. He applied the brake and opened the door before leaving and shutting it with such force that the whole vehicle trembled.

Rogue remained in her seat, her hands joining and fingers chasing each other to settle her nerves. The front door opened and she was in awe at what came out. A hulking silver figure emerged, a man of enormous size, like nothing she had seen before. The features of his face looked like they had been carved out of stone, but as he stomped closer to them, Rogue could see it appeared to be some form of metal. His sculpted mass had been squeezed in to a checked shirt and no attempt had been made to join the buttons, instead the ripples of his abdomen were visible through a white vest. But there was another distinct feature of his appearance—his left arm was gone. For some reason, she was more intrigued by this than the fact he was a walking man of metal.

"Logan?" He boomed, his boots sinking with each stride.

Wolverine approached slowly, hands pushed in to the deepest part of his pockets. As the distance between them closed, he had to tilt his head back to look up in to his blank eyes. "It's been a while, hasn't it Pete?"

"Too long, my friend." His voice was as cold as his native Siberia. He looked towards the vehicle, where the young passenger had yet to make an appearance. "Is something wrong? It is not like you to arrive unannounced."

"Yeah, I'm afraid there is." It was his turn to turn to the truck. "I need somewhere to stay. Just a few nights. I'm in a bit of trouble."

"Trouble?" He sniggered. "It is not like you to need help."

Logan sighed, lifting a foot on to a nearby stone. "Well, there's a first time for everything."


End file.
